


Dusty Groove

by karrenia_rune



Category: Highlander: The Series, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 09:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karrenia_rune/pseuds/karrenia_rune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a bar in a new town is just the right medicine for whatever ails you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dusty Groove

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady yueh](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lady+yueh).



Disclaimer: Avengers belongs to Marvel Entertainment Inc, Fox Movies and its respective producers, directors and creators. It is not mine. Highlander: the Series belongs to Panzer/Davis Productions etc. Again, it is not mine and is only ‘borrowed’ for the purposes of the story. The story was written for lady yueh in the 3rd Round of the X-Over Exchange. Notes: A shout-out must be given to aurilly who gave this an eleventh-hour beta read and made this a much better story, all remaining mistakes are entirely my own.

 

“Dusty Groove” by karrenia

Enough time had passed that the injuries he had sustained fighting alongside the newly minted Avengers had healed, the physical ones at any rate; the wounds done to his psyche, the ones that had scarred his soul, those might take much longer, forever, maybe. ‘Okay,’ Clint thought, ‘maybe I’m being a little melodramatic here, but considering the way I feel right about now, it’s at least partially true.’

The team, while they had fought quite well alongside one another, had never really had time to find that certain something that bound them together as a whole unit. 

True, Clint had ever really considered himself the joining-type, even during his stint with S.H.I.E.L.D. 

Perhaps it was a certain rebellious streak in his nature coupled with a need for something like stability in his life that always kept him pulling at both ends of the string, without ever snapping it apart. 

So, when the team had more or less agreed to go their separate ways unless the world required their services again, Clint was more than happy to set out on his own.

Always one to travel light, he packed his gear, several changes of civilian garb, several packages of beef jerky and trail mix, along with a thermos, underwear, and sundry other items into a duffle bag, strapped his bow and his specially-tricked- out arrows onto his back, and hopped onto his motorcycle.

He did not really have a set destination in mind, stopping here and there, staying in cheap motel whenever he got tired of roaming the open road. 

Clint had never been one much for sight-seeing, or for appreciating the scenery or wherever he happened to be at the time, but as he crossed over from the east coast into the mid-western plains, the miles of asphalt road stretching away behind like his shadow at midday. For once, Clint discovered that it was actually quite freeing, in its way. 

He had been to any number of countries, mostly those in the formerof the Eastern European Soviet Block, However, that had been when he’d been on assignment. 

Now that he was answerable only to himself, at least for a little while; and not so much in his own head-space; (because damn was it uncomfortable and painful in there) he had discovered there was something about the open road that spoke to him.

Maybe it was the wind in his face, the crispness of the fall air, and the leaves on the trees turning from green to all shades of red, orange and yellow; but damn it, if he wasn’t going to milk this for all it was worth. 

He travelled through the Midwest and then, with the true spirit of wanderlust, decided to stash his motorcycle at O’Hare airport and take a plane to the Northwest maybe Tacoma or Portland.

He had never been to that part of the country and figured now was as good a time as any.

Clint was well aware, however, that while he’d been given enough medical leave to go on in this fashion almost indefinitely, sooner or later, SHIELD might get the itch to call him back to the field. Maybe Nick Fury might think that his pain-in-the ass wayward agent might be better employed back on assignment.

Another night, another motel and it was very late. 

He figured that he’d fall asleep almost immediately. He was not much for amenities so that ‘we’ll leave the light on for you, type beckoned to him. Clint sighed. He threw his duffel bag onto the floor, took a little more care with his bows and quiver of arrows. 

Then he lay down on the bed with his hands clasped behind his head and sighed, thinking, ‘Damn it all, this time I will get a full eight hours of sleep.’ 

Despite this new-found resolve, a part of him, still dreaded the dreams that haunted him of what he’d seen and done in the last battle that he’d fought in.

Not too surprisingly his sub-c0ncisous was soon flooded with images of burning buildings, screaming people, and a seemingly endless stream of things that wanted to kill him, firing volleys of arrows at them at almost point-blank range. It was a ppoint of pride that even in his worst nightmares; he almost always hit his target. 

The battle itself, while horrible, yes, did not cause him to wake up from the dreams, bathed in a cold sweat, the sheets in a tight knot around his bare feet. No, it was the honeyed sweet, but serpentine-like voice that had burrowed into his head and caused him to do things that not he had been aware of at the time. 

He’d talked it over with Natasha, with whom he’d felt the most kinship before, during and after the whole mess. 

Natasha had told him that he should not blame himself for what had happened that he had been under Loki’s mental influence at the time. If anyone was to blame, then it was Loki’s fault.

Rationally, Clint knew that she was right, that he should not blame himself for what he he’d done, for those he’d harmed, or worse, killed. However, a part of him still did, and truth be told, probably would, for a very long time.

When morning finally came, the rays of sunlight streaming in through the open window of his hotel room, Clint decided that he really could do nothing about ambivalence of his own feelings. 

‘The nightmares,” he shrugged and thought, ‘Well, there’s that but I can’t let them stop me from getting on with the business of living’  
**  
Seacouver, Washington 

“Sir,” said Joe Dawson, “I think you’ve had enough.”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough,” slurred the other man.

Joe sighed, and shuffled his weight from one foot to another before attempting another sally. As a bartender, he’d encountered patrons like this guy all too often, and had learned a thing or two about how to deal with them.  
He pretended to look around, at the now mostly empty bar, at the freshly-polished serving counter and at the raised stage in the rear where his assistant had set up his stool and his guitar before going home. home. 

Joe felt a little tired and what with the chill in the air, it made his knees ache something fierce, but he would be damned before he’d admit that to anyone, even himself. 

Following shortly on the heels of ‘that’ particular thought, Joe took an appraising look at the extremely well-built man seated at the only occupied table. The man wore his hair shorn close to the scalp in the like an army crew-cut. His piercing blue eyes were cast down to where he clutched his half-empty mug of beer between his hands.

There was also something in the way he hunched over his table, and downed his beers that suggested that he was either running to or from something. 

When Joe looked away from the man at the table and then at something resting by his knees, was y the moment when Joe noticed something completely unexpected; a bow and a quiver of arrows. But ones unlike any that he had ever seen. 

Part of him that knew better than to make an issue of it wanted to pretend that they weren’t there

Curiosity getting the better of him told Joe Dawson to reach over lay his hand on the haft of the reccurved silvery bow. 

In his capacity as a Watcher he had seen any number of weaponry, mostly swords, maces, and the like, and he thought he’ might like to examine it further, if he could the younger man to open and talk to him about it. 

The instant Joe’s fingers closed around its haft, was all it took for the other man’s fingers to close over his own with the swiftness of a striking cobra. “Put it down!” the younger man warned. “If you know what’s good for you.”

He did not shout, or menace him in other way, but the strength in those fingers and in his voice was enough of warning for Dawson. “Sure. No problem,” he replied, letting go as instructed.

“Bring another pitcher, and keep them coming,” said the man, seemingly mollified. 

“Sure thing,” Joe replied, “Coming right up.”

**

“It’s closing time, sir. I am going to have to ask you to leave.”  
Clint chuckled, “So, like the song says, I don’t have to go home, but I can’t stay here, right?”  
“Something like that, replied the bartender. “But, truth to toldl, I’ve never really cared for that song very much. Its kind a nice melody, but you can’t dance to it. 

“How about I make you a deal, if I help you close up, you let me stay?” drawled Clint. He had intended them to be half-heartedly, teasing, but although he’d only been half-aware of the older man’s earlier scrutiny, something in the man’s stance or maybe his voice, or whatever, had caught at him and refused to let go.

Clint studied the other man: his brown, but greying hair, his intent but reassuring brown eyes, the stance of one who was confident and comfortable in his own surroundings, and the air of one who knew a thing or two of what made the world spin and why. 

Clint’s gaze travelled from the man’s face to his hands, one of which rested on the head of a walking stick, the other inside his jacket pocket. 

“Do we have a deal?” he asked.

“Okay, you have yourself a deal, but after the amount you’ve just consumed, I expect you to pull your own weight without either collapsing or throwing up all over my freshly waxed floor,” replied Joe with an off-center wry grin.

Clint laughed. “Roger, boss.”

“Ex-military?” 

“Yeah, something like that,” muttered Clint.

“You have a name, or am I going to have to refer to you, as ‘hey you?”

“Name’s Clint Barton.

“Joe Dawson, here, so let’s get to work.”

They spent the next half hour stacking chairs upside down on tables then sweeping the floor, Clint found himself humming a tuneless melody under his breath, but Dawson didn’t seem to mind, or if he did, chose not to make in issue of it.  
**

“Do you want to talk about it?” Joe asked, as he settled onto his stool and rubbed his aching knee. “I appreciate all the help and everything, but something’s obviously eating at you, so it might help to talk about it.”

“You probably wouldn’t believe if I told you,” replied Clint

“Try me. You might be surprised at what I’ve heard and believed over the years.” Joe grinned and then added. “I’ve actually become quite a good listener, over the years.”

“You sure about that?” Clint asked, arching one eyebrow.

Joe sniffed, “ Yeah, I’m sure. Pull up a chair.”

Clint walked back to the main seating area of the bar and got a chair, and then trotted back over to the raised stage and plunked it down.

“So, what gives?” Joe asked.

“I don’t even know where to start,” muttered Clint, a little angrily, but it seemed that the anger was mostly directed inward. “I could say it’s complicated but even to me, that sounds so damn lame, because it is complicated.”

“I get the feeling this is one of those cases where you know what want you want to say but it’s gotten all twisted up inside, and when do you find yourself able to say it, it comes out all wrong. Hey, we’ve all been there.”

“Not like this, man,” Clint muttered, placing the heels of his hands against his temples. “You mentioned earlier that I was ex-military, and I get the feeling that it’s more than just my stance or my hair-cut that gave me away, am I right?”

“No, I was once a soldier, too, but that was a very long time ago.” Dawson heaved a sigh and rested his crossed arms over his knees.

“How long ago could that be, Dawson? You’re not that old,” Clint remarked, unable to resist getting a little dig in, whenever he could. 

“Long enough, that I was cleaning magazine rifles while you were still in diapers, so mind your manners!”

“Okay, okay, I get the point,” Clint replied. “The thing of is, if this were a simple case of burnout, then I wouldn’t be, oh, the hell with it! I don’t know!”

“Don’t know what?” Dawson gently probed.  
“Don’t know up from down, coming from going. You see there’s weirdness that comes from serving in uniform, and then there’s the weirdness that goes bump in night. That’s the kind that most of us would prefer not to admit to ourselves exists, because…” Clint trailed off, quietly.

“I believe you,” Joe replied just as quietly. “I just hope my asking after you didn’t make it worse for you.”

“No, no,” Clint snorted. “As a matter of fact, it actually helped. Do you do this sort of thing often?”

Joe Dawson offered the younger man a grin, before finally replying, “As a matter of fact, I do. And you don’t have to get into the details of the weirdness unless you want to, because believe me, I’ve dealt with enough weirdness, myself.”

“If I may ask after the exact nature of that weirdness, because unless I miss my guess, I don’t know of any other bartenders quite like you.

Despite his own innate caution, despite his oath to the contrary and his firm underlying resolve that he would not divulge any pertinent information on the nature of the Watchers and by extension the existence of Immortals, Dawson wavered. 

He did not know what was about the younger man, or whatever chaos he’d been going through, but he had taken quite a liking to Clint Barton and felt if whatever his own secrets, and he obviously had a ton of them, he could be trusted with his secret.

“You really want to know?” Joe asked in a hushed undertone.

“What is it?” Clint asked.

Instead of answering right away, Joe set down his glass of beer and then rolled up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo, and said I’m a Watcher.

“That’s creepy. What do you watch, birds? 

“No, actually, earlier you were going out about things that go bump in the night, in my case it’s a secret society that observes and records but hardly ever interferes.

“In what?” Clint asked, intrigued in spite of his initial and innate skepticism.

Joe smiled and rolled his sleeve back down. “Immortals.”

“Did I hear you right?” Clint demanded.

“Yeah, but if anyone should ask, you didn’t hear it from me.”

“If you think that’s weird and it’s some kind of weird shit, assuming its true, but I bet I can top it.”

“Try me,” Joe replied.

“Weird mojo, and I’m talking code-names and spandex, the whole nine-yards, and the weirdness thing, some of this stuff wasn’t even terrestrial.”

“Come off it!” You can’t be serious!” Joe exclaimed.

“It’s true. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye,” Clint swore and took his empty mug and thumped it down on the table. “You’re an odd one, Mr. Dawson, but thanks for the beer and the conversation.”

“Any time, son, any time,” Joe replied. “Any time.”


End file.
